Recursion
by NebulousMistress
Summary: Recursion: the process of defining a function by the repeated application of an algorithm
1. Day 3

I may continue this. Unsure. How many loops are required to claim infinity?

* * *

Three days.

Three days alone on this hellish island. Wilson's hands ached from the work, from constant use with such rough tools. The triumph of realizing he could fashion an ax from the native flint and random sticks had long since worn away, consumed by the ever growing hunger, the exhaustion, the oppressive weight that he carried. Logs were heavy and his lack of anything to call a home base forced him to carry everything he owned on his back like he was some sort of pack mule.

He stooped down to pick up something else, a strange bone with an eye on it that seemed to be looking at him. He held it up, watched it blink at him then widen. The eye seemed to smile and then he heard it.

Boing. Boing. Boing.

Wilson readied his ax. He wasn't sure what was coming but if it was anything like those spiders...

A strange furry... creature... bounded up to him on four round legs. It had a tongue that lolled and a mouth that seemed to stretch all the way around the creature's spherical body. It didn't charge him or attack or even threaten, it merely waited, panting like a friendly dog.

Wilson slowly lowered his ax and tentatively reached out his hand.

The creature opened its mouth, revealing its insides to be very large indeed, maybe even large enough to crawl into. Or perhaps large enough to put things in? And wasn't that the oddest thought. Wilson crept closer, ax forgotten as he examined the inside of the creature's gullet. Warm, slightly damp, everything he would expect from the inside of a mouth. And there was something... inside? He slowly reached inside, ready to pull his hand back in case the creature decided to snap its mouth shut on him. His curious hand felt something furry...

Wilson pulled out a bundle wrapped in an old rabbit fur. He looked at it, made to pocket it but realized he didn't have anywhere to put it. But he didn't want to put it back. What if it got digested? He got an idea, dumping all the rocks he carried into the creature's gullet. It seemed to enjoy that, wiggling in some sort of glee as it pranced with its strange round feet.

The sun began to dip below the trees. Dusk hit hard, promising another oppressively dark night. Wilson shuddered and squinted into the half light, looking for a fairly safe place to camp for the night.

-00000-

Wilson glared down at his furry 'companion'. The creature was curled up, sleeping peacefully while Wilson had to stay awake, tending the fire. His third night without sleep. And yet he wasn't as tired as he normally would have been were he back in his beloved laboratory. How long had it been? Three days? Only three days...

It felt like an eternity. Wilson allowed himself to reminisce, pulling images of his past from the depths of his mind. The shack in the wilderness, the experiments, that damned radio...

He paused before trying to remember before that. But the images were fuzzy, difficult to envision. Voices were blurred, fading together until they all sounded like that damned Maxwell. It wasn't that long ago, was it? Why couldn't he...

Wilson sighed as he gave up. Something about this place must be blocking his mind, keeping him from dwelling on his past. He pulled the eyebone from his pocket and stared at it. It stared back at him, blinking slowly. It was disturbing but it felt... comforting. And it was looking at something...

Wilson followed the eye to the rabbit fur pouch he'd pulled from the creature's mouth. "You want me to..." he asked before promptly feeling silly. It was an eye on a stick, was it really going to answer him? Still, the eye seemed to smile at him. He sighed and figured he had nothing to lose. He put another log on the fire for light and unwrapped the rabbit fur.

Paper.

Paper? Wait, not quite paper. It felt like woven reeds, tightly dried into sheets. And there was writing...

_If you are reading this then I am dead and the eyebone has passed to you. Greetings, fellow prisoner. For that is what we are here in this never-ending hell. But that does not mean we have to be alone. The creature you've pulled this from is to be perhaps the most loyal friend you have ever known. His name is Otto von Chesterfield, Esq. but you may call him 'Chester'. He has followed me through my many trials on this cursed island and now that I am dead I do hope that he will follow you._

_Enclosed in this bundle I leave many of my notes. I hope that they allow your survival here or perhaps, Science willing, you may find a way to escape Maxwell's clutches._

_Good luck to you._

_Wilson Percival Higgsbury_

Wilson went pale as he read the name. As he recognized the handwriting. His own.

"How long have I been here?" he whispered.


	2. Day 8

Change a variable and the whole equation changes. But is it enough?

* * *

_Day 12_

_I hate those infernal hounds._

_I can hear them approaching. I regret now that I have not walled off this little corner of the forest that I have chosen to call my own. I am tired, I am hungry, and I am weak from the venom of those spiders. I fear I have just enough time to fashion a spear before they come for me._

Wilson's hands shook as he read the words in the dying firelight. The darkness pressed in against him all around, crawling inward as the fire sputtered.

Those were the last words on the page. Dark spots marred the edges of the papyrus, dried deep into the reeds. A thick swipe of brown streaked along the bottom as if by a bloodied hand. Wilson took a shuddering breath. The man who wrote this had died there, his blood on the page as those hounds tore him apart.

It was written in his own hand.

But it hadn't happened. Had it?

The words grew hard to read as the fire died to embers. Wilson looked around nervously before tossing some sticks on the fire and blowing into the coals to rekindle them. Another log for good measure gave the fire something to burn.

Wilson gazed at the words on the page. He could sense the fear, the resignation, perhaps the realization. This man knew he was going to die and spent his last moments not only preparing to defend himself but penning this warning. Why? A need for his death to have meaning? And had he penned the introductory letter? Or had he merely found the bundle as Wilson himself had?

There was only one way to find out.

Wilson closed his eyes and tried to remember.

He remembered barking in the distance, the darkness oppressive. He remembered...

"Oh lord..."

He remembered...

He'd... he'd **died**...

"What... what is this place?" he whispered.

-00000-

Hounds. So there would be hounds coming. Wilson poked at the science machine he'd built, cobbled together out of stones, wood, and gold plating. Not the precision tools he was used to. Or maybe it was; it had been almost instinct to plate the stones and focus the gold on the inside, seemed very natural to fit the contraption with a single lever. Like the machine that brought him here...

This machine seemed to act like a focus. He was still forced to do all of the work with his own hands, the machine merely made it easier to figure out what he was supposed to do. Like this suit that felt like it would offer protection from teeth and claws. He wove rope in and around logs split and hollowed, tightening it around his chest and shoulders like a medieval suit of armor. It wrapped around his torso, tied on over his chest like a harness.

It was uncomfortable. And heavy. And it had yet to be tested.

A faint barking in the distance made Wilson shudder.

"We don't have time to test it, Chester," Wilson said, his voice raising as fear began to take hold. But no, he had to defend himself. Like he'd done once before. But this time he had no intention of dying. He fashioned a spear, tying a flint point to a stick. It seemed so flimsy compared to the sharp fangs of the hounds he knew were coming.

He lit a fire to ward off the falling dusk. Chester whined and hid behind his legs, huddling close to the flame.

And then the hounds crested the rise. Two of them.

"Come at me," he whispered.


	3. Day 11

So many variables... So many possibilities...

* * *

_Day 24_

_The trees are not unguarded._

_I was chopping wood when one of the larger nearby trees stood up and came at me, wooden claws unsheathed. Rather than stand my ground I chose the better part of valor and ran. Unfortunately it pursued me. I ended up trapped far from my base camp with night approaching._

_Huddling in the night with a torch is not something I relish in this cursed wilderness but sometimes it must be done. Unfortunately the night did not quell the guardian's wrath and it continued its slow, plodding pursuit of me. But I had an idea. I began planting every pine cone I had in my possession, speaking to each one as I did so. I would have felt silly had the guardian not walked up to me and stood as if waiting. I continued in my pagan offering until the guardian was apparently satisfied and settled back down. I swear to all I hold dear, the guardian looked exactly like a normal tree, albeit a large one._

_I admit I did not return that way for a day before I managed to gather the courage to see what had become of the forest guardian. Much to my initial fear it had left the site of sacrifice and was wandering the groves. But it did not seem to notice me._

_I do not wish to attack it again. I do not think I should like to be impaled by those massive splintered claws. But I wonder..._

_I will attempt an experiment tomorrow. Over the ridge there is a ring of hounds sleeping around a gem-topped staff. This may be insanity but I will attempt to lead these hounds to the guardian and see if it will guard me._

Wilson stared at the words written on the page. They were not shaky or bloodied, they were not the words of a madman. But what those words implied, it was madness. Trees did not walk and they certainly would not guard a man if they could.

Curiously, this was not the final entry on this page. There was one more.

_Day 25_

_I have survived._

_I nearly didn't. The guardian was not where I expected it to be. Worse, the hounds run faster than I had anticipated. Only my log suit prevented me from being taken down by those beasts. I am still greatly injured._

_But I have been proven correct. The guardian will attack that which attacks it. And the hounds are so very willing to attack anything they see._

_I must attempt to face a nest of spiders. I need their glands or I fear these wounds will fester._

Wilson shuddered. He hated spiders. He did not want to think about dying by them, feeling their venom coursing through his veins, their webbing holding him down at they bite again and again-

Ugh. A horrible way to die. He could envision it so easily.

-00000-

Wilson was getting low on wood. Keeping the nightly fire going took a great deal of flammable material and sticks only lasted so long. He'd nearly filled Chester with logs and pine cones before he saw it. A nice big fat tree in the middle of a field of young trees. Perfect for the taking. He sank his ax to the hilt in its trunk.

And then it began to move.

"Oh," he realized.

He grabbed Chester and ran as the treeguard awoke.


End file.
